Way She Walked, The
by Traxits
Summary: He had watched her again; he had seen the sway of her hips, and he had tightened, swelling to think of her in anything less than the perfectly modest robes that all apprentices wore.


**Title**: The Way She Walked  
**Author**: Traxits  
**Rating**: M. NSFW (Not Safe For Work)  
**Word Count**: 888 words.  
**PC**: Fem!Amell or Fem!Surana.  
**Spoilers**: None.  
**Summary**: "He had watched her again; he had seen the sway of her hips, and he had tightened, swelling to think of her in anything less than the perfectly modest robes that all apprentices wore."

**[[ ... One-Shot ... ]]**

He had watched her again; he had seen the sway of her hips, and he had tightened, swelling to think of her in anything less than the perfectly modest robes that all apprentices wore. They covered everything, and yet left little to the imagination since they clung so immodestly. It was how he knew the curve of her breasts, how he knew the sweet indention of her hip. He ached to touch that little nook, to feel his fingers pressing into it as he pulled her down and over him...

Swallowing, he splashed water over his face. He didn't need to look in the mirror to know that he was flushed. The heat from his cheeks could probably fog up the glass in front of him, and when his eyes lifted up to look at himself, he realized that he looked feverish. It was no wonder the other templars asked if he was coming down with something so frequently, if this was how he looked every time she walked past.

But by the Maker, the way she walked, the unknowing seduction in each step-or was it practiced? He couldn't tell, and honestly, he didn't care. Every time she passed by him, he found his fingers twitching, wanting to stop her to talk, to look at her, to memorize every inch of the face that haunted him day in and out.

Now, he glanced around, although he knew perfectly well that he had the quarters to himself. The others would be at the chapel, as he would have been had he not begged off, pleading illness. Greagoir had studied him intently, but to Cullen's fortune, _she_ had come in to begin her meditations. Once he'd flushed, Greagoir had sent him out, clearly believing him ill. He was almost certain that he had to be. One did not obsess over apprentices the way he did her. It was unheard of.

He peeled away his armor, leaving it in a pile. He just wanted it off, wanted to be able to stretch himself over the small bed he had. He _wanted_ her to walk in, to push him back, to climb on top of him, but since he knew that it wasn't going to happen, he would have to settle. As soon as he was comfortably stripped, he fell onto the bed, careful not to fall on _that_ part of himself. The last thing he needed was for it to ache any worse than it already did.

He rolled over, staring up at the ceiling, knowing that he should ride it out. He should say the Chant of Light until these feelings disappeared. But it took so much longer than just... His fingers twitched, and he glanced again at the door. It was shut and locked, although it wouldn't really help his case. The door wasn't supposed to be locked. He could probably get away with it though.

Slowly, he let his hand reach down and rub against himself, nearly groaning as soon as any amount of pressure touched him. His length twitched under the feel of his fingers, and he quickly unlaced the front of his trousers, freeing himself with a practiced flick of his wrist. Hesitantly, he wrapped his hand around his manhood, feeling it throb in his own grip.

His blush deepened, and his breathing hitched as he began to move, slowly pushing his hand up and down along himself. He could almost imagine that it was someone else, perhaps _her_ hand wrapped around him, squeezing him ever so slightly. He could see her, sitting across his thighs, looking down at him, her lips slightly wet from that tongue flicking out to lightly touch them, her face flushed with the same arousal that seemed to consume him from the inside out.

He wanted nothing more than to grab her, pull her down to taste her, to feel her hands pressing against his chest as he repositioned her hips. He wanted to feel himself pressing up against that heated wetness of her center; he wanted to plunge into her, to make her cry out his name. _Cullen, Cullen!_

He could almost hear her, and he gasped sharply, but he was too disciplined to moan, no matter how much the noise pressed against his tongue. He wondered if she'd be able to wring one out of him, if pushing into her would be enough to elicit a groan or even a plea for more. The thought was enough to make him move a little faster. He couldn't imagine her begging; no matter how delicious the thought was.

He wanted to be inside of her; he wanted to feel her wrapping around him, tightening around him, and pulling him in deeper. His hand jerked and squeezed himself, and he gasped, his breathing catching sharply. The thought of being inside of her-

He felt himself explode, spilling over his hand and his thighs. For just a moment, he lay there, gasping, trying to collect himself. Then he pushed himself up to his elbows to survey his mess. It was all _her_ fault. The way she walked... Shuddering, he reached for a small towel to clean up with. He couldn't let himself think about her anymore; not when she filled him with such a dark need. As he did _every _time, he told himself that **this **would be the last. It couldn't happen again.


End file.
